


The Many, Many Downsides to Being Undead

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Character Turned Into Vampire, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 15:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10573716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You know what’s awful about being undead?It’s not having to pick Jakartan dirt out of your every orifice for weeks on end. It’s not the persistent urge to eviscerate your friends and family. It’s not even the loss of the abilities to ever have a boner again. Or use Touch ID.No, for Arthur, it’s the fact that he’s got no more bloodstream to inject psychoactive drugs into. Ergo, no more dreamsharing.(After a fiasco in Indonesia, Arthur inexplicably resurrects as a raging asshole with a lust for blood)





	

You know what’s awful about being undead?

It’s not having to pick Jakartan dirt out of your every orifice for weeks on end. It’s not the persistent urge to eviscerate your friends and family. It’s not even the loss of the abilities to ever have a boner again. Or use Touch ID.

No, for Arthur, it’s the fact that he’s got no more bloodstream to inject psychoactive drugs into. Ergo, no more dreamsharing.

“Why,” Arthur wonders aloud, “Did you have to bury me. In a dumpster.”

Eames feigns rolling his eyes back in his head, and Cobb drops his head onto the kitchenette counter with a sigh. And well, Arthur knows he’s being a little insensitive. Sure, Cobb’s own pasty arms had been been rolling Arthur into a shallow grave mere weeks ago, but _still_ \- if he’s going to listen to them bitch nonstop about this new extraction, they’re going to have to listen to him bitch about being alive to witness it.

“I’m wishing more and more that you all had just gotten me cremated,” he continues. “Or at least tossed into a lake. Or buried on the side of the trash mountain that would’ve blocked the light of the full moon or whatever the hell it is that did it.”

Eames and Cobb exchange a silent look.

He grabs his mug of tea and leaves kitchen, muttering about research. In truth, his research has _been_ done and he knows the operation inside and out. He’d just rather sit with his laptop than bear their guilt.

*    *    *    *

If pity and guilt have any use, it’s on Yusuf. Yusuf is the only one who knows all the dirty details about Arthur’s new predicament, because he’s the only one who can fix it.

“God,” Arthur groans as he swallows the contents of the beaker. That’s another thing they’ve tested. He can still say the word. “What on earth is it this time?”

Yusuf apologetically holds out a glass of water.

“Goat blood, infused with raw garlic and rosemary ash.”

They’ve found that only infusions work. Any solid substance, and he’s throwing up for hours.

Arthur gargles a mouthful of water and spits into the sink. “You get more creative every time.”

“What choice do we have?” Yusuf points out, tapping away at his spreadsheet. “Alright. So record hunger and energy levels every two hours. Mental diagnostic every six hours.”

 *    *    *    * 

Arthur goes home that night with a bag full of bottled goat blood, resolving to read a book and set a phone timer for 6 in the morning.

Four hours later, he’s fairly sure that he’s going insane. He’s never been so bored in his life. His career has been brought to a near standstill, and he can’t even sleep to pass the time. On impulse, he heads back to the makeshift team office, bringing a single dose with him. If all goes well, he’ll find something to do, and be back home before he needs the next one.

Arthur is scrubbing the grout in the bathroom with an old toothbrush when he hears the front door bang open. He instantly reaches for his gun. He may be undead, but there’s still important stuff in the place. Say, about six to eight very portable and extremely illegal PASIVs.

He places the toothbrush on the floor and creeps out of the bathroom, towards the front of the office. Then there’s a telltale _snick_.

He peers into the kitchen and lowers his gun with a sigh.

“Eames, what the hell are you doing here at five in the morning?”

Eames turns from the open refrigerator door. “Just clocking in early,” he says with a grin. “And I might ask the same of you?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Arthur says stiffly.

“Sure,” Eames says, sticking his head back in the fridge. “Hey, whose is this?” His hand closes around Arthur’s bottle. “Is this another one of Dom’s stupid detox drinks?”

Arthur opens his mouth.

Eames twists the cap off and take a sniff. “What the _fuck_ ,” he says slowly. “Is this _blood_?”

Arthur closes his mouth.

Eames dips a fingertip into the liquid and raises it to the light. “Yup, definitely blood. Either those holistic health gurus are going a little too far, or somebody here is secretly a vampire.”

Arthur opens his mouth-

He screws the lid back on. “Why else would-" He looks at Arthur quizzically. "Hey, you alright?”

Arthur is fairly sure that he is doing an excellent impression of a stunned goldfish. And no, he is most definitely not alright. He’s a fucking vampire, for heaven's sake. 

“No,” Arthur says. “I’m not a - al...right.”

There is a terrible pause. 

“Oh,” Eames says, realization dawning. “It’s _you_ , isn’t it? This is what you’ve been pissed off about this whole time? You’re a real-life vampire. That would explain why you don't eat or drink anything besides tea, don't sleep, and can't stand any of us these days. Even thought that is how you were getting anyway. But still, makes sense.”

“No,” Arthur hisses. "Don't be ridiculous."

Eames raises his hands. “Whoa, okay then. Sure.” He reaches back into the fridge. “Want a breakfast sandwich then? I brought two.”

Arthur’s stomach involuntarily turns at the memory of the first and last time he tried solid food after the incident.

“No.”

“How about this?” Eames holds out the bottle.

Arthur glowers. It’s a lot easier than trying to come up with an explanation. Nothing he says will be able to counter the blaring confirmation his reactions have provided thus far.

“I’m not -” he tries.

“Arthur.”

Arthur crosses his arms and glares resolutely at the ground. “Well, it’s your fault."

“My fault?” Eames says incredulously. “I don’t happen to recall cooking up the virus for vampirism and slipping it into your Somnacin. And trust me, I’m not intending to go the Dom route of getting depressed over everything, so don't go-”

“Well maybe if you’d listened to the locals and realized that there was something fishy about the whole town, particularly the fucking _haunted dumpster_ -”

“Well maybe if you hadn’t gotten yourself _killed_ in the first place-”

“Wow. What a genius suggestion,” Arthur deadpans. “It never really occurred to me to stay alive."

"I mea-"

"I guess that just wasn’t really my priority when I was running from five armed men in the dead of night."

Eames is silent.

“And you know, maybe I really wasn’t focused on self-preservation enough when I was leading them away from the apartment that you all were sitting ducks in. Maybe I just wasn’t running fast enough when I got shot in the back? Maybe I should’ve known that they were herding me straight into a den of twenty mob bosses and their henchmen? Maybe, if I had paid attention to what the hell they did to me after I passed out, I’d know how to fix all this?”

Eames looks contrite.

Arthur's been shouting, he realizes. And he's also somehow advanced three feet closer to Eames. Black spots dance at the edges of his vision. In the distance, he hears the faint, muffled strains of a familiar song.

“Arthur,” Eames begins softly.

It’s his phone alarm. And it’s been going off for god-knows how long.

Arthur doesn’t even feel his head hit the kitchen counter on his way to the floor.


End file.
